


Beginning to Bruise

by romanticalgirl



Category: Withnail & I (1986)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:06:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I think you should strangle it quickly before it starts trying to make friends with us.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beginning to Bruise

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Apathy Jane for Yuletide 2007
> 
> Originally posted 1-1-08

“You have an arseload of nerve.”

Withnail’s ranting out the window, shouting down at me on the sidewalk. I’m particularly more impressed that he managed to get the blasted thing open, being as I’d given it up for sealed shut ages ago. I can smell something that might be fish or quite possibly drugs burning somewhere in the background, and there’s smoke roiling around Withnail’s head.

“An absolute arseload, you small-pricked wanker. Now get up here and get me a biscuit.”

You’d wonder why I’d go back, but sometimes things aren’t quite what you make them out to be. Withnail, of course, is. He’s completely, bloody, stark-raving mad. Obsessed with everything that defines hedonism, though he’s not had anything more than a wank in at least a year, maybe longer. Acting wasn’t, though I managed it for a while, but something brought me back here.

“Where’s my biscuit?” I clear the door, just managing to duck beneath the pot that soars a bit too close to my head. It clatters out into the hall and I would watch to see where it lands – we’ve had a bit of a contest over the years, judged on accuracy, distance and who finally goes to fetch the blasted thing – but I’m not sure there’s not more projectiles headed in the direction of my head, so I don’t bother, simply hurry inside and shed my coat on the way to the kitchen.

“Christ, Withnail. It’s like a bloody icebox in here.”

“There’s no heat. We’re to freeze to death. They’ll find us, ages from now, trapped in blocks of ice, our bollocks shrunken to the size of raisins.” He angles his foot out, trying to catch my coat on his toe, tugging it back toward him. I ignore him, knowing he’ll end up with it sooner or later regardless, digging through the pockets for money or fags or whatever else he can find. “There’s shit in this coat. You’re a lousy houseguest.”

“I wasn’t aware I was a guest.” I toss him the tin of biscuits without looking inside it. I’d rather not lose the lunch I paid for, and there’s no telling how old anything in the flat is. I’ve threatened time and again to call in a documentary program to carbon date everything, but Withnail assures me there’s no carbon, just mold, and I’m not about to argue.

“These are shit.” He tosses the open tin on the floor and crumbs scatter out on the carpet. “Utter shit. Just like my life. It’s shit, you know.”

“So you’ve said.” I grab something else from the cupboard, making a bit of a face at it before tossing it his direction. It’s potted meat, so I’m not sure it can actually _go_ bad, but I’d rather he risk it than I. “I’ve brought booze.”

“Well, bloody fuck.” Withnail rises off the davenport like mythical royalty and advances on me. “Why on earth did you take so fucking long to say so? Hand it over.”

“Ask me nicely.”

“I’ve not tossed you out the window and I didn’t hit you with the pot. That is asking nicely. Now hand it over before I lose my temper and piss all over you.” He shoves down his pajama pants and grabs his prick, waving it in my general direction. His briefs are grey and baggy and his bollocks don’t have that far to go before they _are_ the size of raisins. “Come on. Let me get pissed or you will.”

I hand over the bottle and watch as Withnail upends it, drinking half in one long swallow. He coughs and splutters and falls back, brittle and dramatic and full of venom.

“What the fuck is this?”

“Cooking sherry.”

“That’s not booze, you fuck.” He drinks the rest of the bottle down regardless, huge gulps that have to burn. His eyes water and he wipes it away like they’re tears, every flourish meant to impress someone, though I’m not quite sure who. I’ve stopped being impressed, though I could be wrong, given that I keep coming back for more. “Got any more?”

“Not a drop.”

“My God, we’re _destitute_.” Withnail falls back onto the davenport, rooting around in the cushions for a fag or worse. He pulls something wilted and crumpled from beneath him and shoves it in his mouth. It dangles there like something dead, a monument to impotence. “We’ll have to sell your coat.”

“We’re not selling my coat.”

“We have no other recourse.”

“We bloody fucking do.” I grab my coat from where he’s draped it over his lap, cringing as I realize he’s not actually put his cock away after the threat of pissing on me. I can only hope he’s spared the coat as well. “We can sell your fucking coat.”

“Mine? My coat?” He stands, fag dangling from his mouth and prick dangling from his pants and I can’t help but laugh. It’s not bloody funny, but I don’t know what else to do. It’s Withnail all over the place. “Stop laughing, you cunt. We can’t sell my coat.”

“Why not?”

“I ate it.”

“You _what_?”

“Or gave it to Danny for drugs. I’m not quite certain. Let’s see if there are drugs and we’ll know.”

“You’ve gone bloody mad in my absence.”

“Of course I have, you complete shit. You _left_ me. What else was I supposed to do?” He stabs at me with the fag, nearly burning a hole in my hand as I bat it away. “You left to do bloody _plays_ and I’m stuck here with drug dealers and philosophers and fucking commercials for Citroen. What the bloody fuck do I do with a Citroen?”

“Pay the fucking bills with it? This place is a mess, Withnail. It’s rats and bugs and mold and smells not found in nature.”

“As if you’ve been in nature.”

“I _have_ been in nature, you lunatic. You _dragged_ me out to fucking nature by my balls, got me felt up by your bloody uncle and chased by a fucking bull.”

“I thought you had a rather good time.”

“You’re fucking mad.”

“We’ve established that.” Withnail tucks himself back in his shorts and stubs the fag out on the table. Something crackles as if it’s set to burn, but he manages to put it out, preventing further disaster not of his own direct making. “Let’s go to the pub.”  



End file.
